


Pilgrim's Flight

by owlishly



Category: Destiny (Video Games)
Genre: Birds, Ficlet, First Meetings, Gen, Gentle Interrogations, Tea
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-01
Updated: 2018-06-01
Packaged: 2019-05-16 21:25:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14819151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/owlishly/pseuds/owlishly
Summary: Tea makes a bad day (somewhat) better.





	Pilgrim's Flight

**Author's Note:**

> More detailed content note: mention of military (or, well, Guardian) personnel threatening/manhandling a civilian.

It took two hours and three cups of tea to crack her. Devrim was more than a little impressed; most people gave in after forty-five minutes alone with him and his favourite rose petal infusion. After an especially loud slurp, she set the cup down hard, glared at him, and said, "I was following one of the peregrines."

Sitting and sipping in silence for so long had driven him into an almost meditative state. Her words took a moment to register. When they did, he thanked the Sky for Mark's ongoing obsession with the Tower birdcam. "You mean the falcons? The ones nesting on Level 28?"

"Obviously." Her snappishness was reflexive. He could see her regretting it even as she spoke. "I saw Lyssa - that's the female - I saw her go for a pigeon, but she missed. They got into a tail-chase and flew right over the Wall. Nothing came back, so..." She shrugged. "I went to check, that's all."

Devrim took a sip from his own cup. Suraya Hawthorne's file was already a thick one, and it gained more padding by the month: truancy, trespassing, vandalism, fighting in the streets. Her other hobbies had gone unmentioned. "Whose side were you on?"

She shot him a look that said she was amazed at the stupidity of his question. "Nobody's. I just wanted to see them fly."

"Not that it's an area I know much about," he said, "but I'd have assumed a falcon could outmanoeuvre a pigeon without much trouble."

"Everyone thinks that," said Suraya, warming to her topic. The sullen child who'd glowered at him across the table all evening was gone; in her place sat a girl animated by enthusiasm. "Peregrines stoop faster than anything, but the pigeon has a really good chance if they don't connect. People actually used to breed them for racing -" Too late, she seemed to realise what she'd talked herself into. She snatched her cup up again and took a huge, angry gulp of tea, as if she were trying to drown the rest of her words in it.

He fought to keep a straight face. If she thought he was laughing at her, any progress they might have made would be lost. "So you like birds?"

Spluttering a little, she wiped her sleeve across her mouth. The scowl was back. "They're okay."

Fourteen years old and full of hopeless fury. He wondered if anybody had ever taken the time to listen to her before. Her file had enough background for him to put two and two together: born in a fallow year to meet an annual quota, then passed around from crèche to crèche. That same situation had created in him a distant sort of politeness and a determination to cling to rituals most City people had long since ceased to see as part of their identity. Even Mark, who had lived his life secure in the knowledge that all his mothers had wanted him for himself, did not always understand.

At last, he said, "My fiancé has a friend who rehabilitates wild birds. Guardians bring them in sometimes, and the rest turn up here. She trained a young hawk to help scare the Tower pigeons away, but then those falcons came along and put them out of a job." He pretended not to notice the light in Suraya’s eyes, or the way she was leaning forward as if to leap over the table. "I'm told there's been some difficulty as far as finding you a work placement goes." The difficulty lay in her not showing up, but he kept that part to himself. “Would you like me to see if there’s any chance of your apprenticing under her?”

"All right," she said, as if she were doing him a tremendous favour. After a pause, she burst out with, "Aren't you going to yell at me?"

"Were you expecting me to?"

"I wasn't expecting flowery tea." For the first time that evening, she seemed hesitant. She reached for her cup, then hid her hands under the table instead. "The Guardian who brought me in did. She got me by the arm and said she’d leave me to the militia."

It was Devrim’s turn to frown. “Who was this, do you know?”

“Some Titan. She was patrolling in among the rocks. I guess I surprised her, or maybe she was on edge to start with.” Suraya’s eyes were fixed on the teacup. Her voice was less steady than she no doubt would have wished it to be. “She powered up. Almost hit me.”

Devrim stilled. Outside, a chanter was calling the hour. He could hear muffled conversation filtering through from the other room, but all else was quiet. Exhaling through his teeth, he said, "She shouldn't have done that. Did you happen to notice any identifying details?"

When Suraya raised her head, there was an odd sort of vulnerability to her features he hadn’t seen before. With a wrench, he realised she’d been bracing for him to dismiss her. “Not really. Plain white armour with some red bits, I think. There was an eagle stencil on her chestplate.” The openness lingered for a second. She crossed her arms, and it was gone. "I have to pee. Again."

He nodded toward the door, thoughts still spinning. As she stood, he opened his mouth to speak. Then he closed it. His tea had gone cold.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! ♥


End file.
